


the only hope for me is you

by Writerbyday05



Category: The Devil All the Time (2020)
Genre: 60's Music, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character(s) of Color, F/M, Falling In Love, Flashbacks, Gen, How Do I Tag, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, It's my story i make the playlist, Mental Anguish, Mild Blood, Musical References, Non-Graphic Violence, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Violence, Period-Typical Racism, Rated Teen because I am Paranoid, Recovery, Shooting Guns, Smoking, Underage Smoking, all 60's lets go, kinda slowburn, the 60s kids did what they wanted too, this is uh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26619628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writerbyday05/pseuds/Writerbyday05
Summary: In Cincinnati Ohio, 1965, a young man exits a beat-up burgundy Volkswagen. He wanders into the outskirts of the city, something foreign to him, and upon finding a diner he walks into the pale yellow building.Arvin Russel is trying to escape the devils of his past. He finds that escape within the walls of the plain yellow diner.(There will be mentions of triggering things such as r*pe/non-con, more details in the notes!)
Relationships: Arvin Russell/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Welcome to my ending for the 2020 movie-rendition of the novel The Devil All The Time. I hope you enjoy it! Please don't feel shy when it comes to giving out ideas, advice, or good-natured criticism. I'd really appreciate it!
> 
> Enjoy the read!
> 
> BTW: All the Triggers in this story will be put at the bottom, if you have any triggers about what I've listed in the tags (Even if they are not going to be explicitly described or mentioned) please take caution in what you read!

In Cincinnati Ohio, 1965, a young man exits a beat-up Volkswagen. Its burgundy door thudded shut behind him as he wanders into the outskirts of the city. The city itself is something foreign to him. Upon finding a diner, he walks into the pale yellow building. He closes his eyes and stares at the handle of the door. Something pulls at his stomach. _Don’t_.

He swallowed tightly. His grip on the handle tightens as he swung it open. _Too late._

The delicate, familiar tinkle of a bell is heard and alerts the waiters in the diner of his entrance. 

_Funny that such a small thing can sound like something I’ve missed._

He grabs the empty stool at the counter and peers out the window. It was so… _different_ from Knockemstiff. Only the smudges on the glass windows were the same. Cars were bustling down the street, people chattering among the diner, and everything was humming. Everything was alive.

“Excuse me?” He blinks back to reality and finds a young woman standing in front of him, notepad in hand. 

“Can I get your order, sir?” She repeats what she had said. Not that he can recall it, though. _Had she said anythin’?_

He clears his throat and his eyes flick to hers almost involuntarily. “I’ll take one of them black coffees. Please,” he adds after a moment passes.

She nods, then scribbles something down on the faded yellow paper. “Can I get you anything else?”

He shakes his head. “No, ma’am.”

She hums. “Alrighty, then. I’ll be right back with your order, Mister..?”

“Arvin,” he replies. If someone asks about the sudden swing in his voice, it doesn’t exist.

She scribbles something down, “Alright then Arvin, hon, I’ll be back in a jiff.”

He tips his head in her direction. And suddenly, the music playing softly registers in his ears. It’s a song he’s never heard. All he knows is that it’s one with an _incredibly_ catchy guitar riff. The entire building is flooded with the bitter smell of black coffee and frying bacon.

_Baby, ooh, love is strange…_

“Cathy!” An older man barks from behind the counter. Arvin glances over to the source of the harsh yell and finds a portly man standing there. The man glares down at a young woman.

“God, Joe, I’m awful sorry I was so late, I had to help my momma with the kids again—”

“For heaven's sake, child, you want the job? Get in on time! Now go and do your damn job so I don’t gotta fire you.” He shakes his head— with a touch of pity — and returns to the kitchen.

Cathy throws on an apron, then rushes to the man that’s seated to Arvin’s left. He glances at her. She isn’t anything special. She throws out the same greeting the other waiter had used on him, takes his order, but then she catches his gaze for a moment. Somehow, though, he’s cowed. 

He looks away first and shrinks in on himself.

The previous waitress— Barbara, upon closer inspection of her name tag— sets the coffee down on a small plate in front of him. “That’ll be 7 cents, Mister.”

Arvin digs around his wallet and offers her the money. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Barbara smiles. “My pleasure, Mister Arvin. You need anythin’ else, you just give me or Cathy a holler, alrighty darlin’? Here’s a menu in case you change your mind.” She sets the menu by his plate and— to his relief— leaves him alone.

Arvin takes a sip of the warm, bitter drink while he goes over the menu. A plate of ham and eggs would do nicely. He lifts his head to ‘holler’ at Barbara, but finds her occupied with a couple. He exhales and turns his head to the left and— lucky for him — that Cathy girl had finished serving him.

Arvin cleared his throat. “Pardon me, miss?” 

She looks up at him and blinks. “Hey there. Can I get you anything, sir?”

Arvin nods. He pokes at the menu. “Can you get me a platter of eggs and ham?”

“Sure thing. How do you like your eggs?” 

“Over easy’ll do.” He shifts in place. His eyes dart around the room. 

Cathy nods again. “That all you need for now?” She seemed so _normal_ , among everything else. But there’s something else about her that makes her stick out like a sore thumb.

“Yes, thank you,” Arvin croaks out, and tries to muffle his cough. 

She nods and flashes a small smile. “No problem, sir. I’ll be right back with your food.”

He nods and returns to his cup of coffee. He thinks of his aunt Emma, who would probably take one look at her and shake her head.

_What a nice young lady. Bless her soul._

Something stirs in his chest. It twists his stomach in the worst way that he’s familiar with. It makes him feel squeamish. He misses his aunt. He misses his uncle, too. Most of all, poor Arvin missed Lenora. Out of all things… he never made things right with himself over her leaving so soon.

“Here you go, two eggs over easy with ham.” Her voice snaps him right out of his thoughts. Cathy set the plate before him along with the silverware. “That’ll be one dollar and six cents.”

Arvin pulls out a two-dollar bill and the change then hands it to her with a mumbled thanks. 

“Sir, it was only one dollar.” She laughs nervously. It was just the smallest bit strangled as if her throat suddenly closed up. 

Arvin’s lips twitch at their corners in the faintest hint of a smile. “I know. That’s a dollar for you there, Miss Cathy.”

Cathy raised her brow but chose to tuck the bill into her apron instead of questioning the stranger's kindness. She gave him another smile. This one seemed more distant, though. “Thank you, sir. Ah, enjoy your meal.”

“Will do.” He tips his head. Oddly, he felt a bit flustered himself. _Strange._

He finishes the food but finds himself at a loss. _Where does he go now?_

He glances around the restaurant until his eyes land on a stack of newspapers. He reaches over and grabs one. At the yellow pages, his eyes land on a job advertisement. Right here in town.

_Mechanics Help for hire: needs to be strong, decent knowledge on fixing up cars and trucks, must be able to take early to late shifts,_ Arvin read to himself. _Well damn. There’s my new job, hopefully._

He took the ad out and shoved it into his back pocket, and exits the diner. He rests against the wooden powerline poles, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. He inhales the poignant smoke, letting out one long breath after another.

He could only think of his new life here in Ohio. Arvin could only think of finally finding some peace in this godforsaken life of his.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arvin felt the weight on his chest grow heavier. 
> 
> Home. 
> 
> He could have cried, but he knew better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh chapter 2 is here WAIT TILL CHAPTER THREE HOOO BOI time to get this fic moving. (btw this is,, gonna be a kinda long fic so they won't fall in love right away but when they do it'll be amazing I promise) I have so many things planned dlhasfljasvb
> 
> ANYWAYs, enjoy!!!

Arvin walks into the garage of  _ Smith’s Auto Shop  _ and clears his throat. “Pardon me, sir?” His voice rasps on the words and he doesn’t like it. 

After a moment, he spotted a pair of legs beneath a beat-up pickup. The figure beneath the truck wriggles out from beneath the metal frame without difficulty— but with a little stiffness. The older man looks to be in his late fifties. The denim cap that sat atop his head was worn with age and oil stains, but it was also worn with pride. His face is tired and wrinkled but there always seemed to be the faintest hint of a smile about him, even if it wasn’t on his face.

“Gimme a hand here son,” he calls from his spot on the ground as he waves his grease-covered hand.

Arvin walks towards him, grips his hand, and hoists the man up. “Are you Mr. Smith?”

“That’s me, son. Can I help you out?” He grabs a dirty rag and dusts off his hands, but from the looks of the towel, it wasn’t doing much to the grease stains.

Arvin hastily reaches into his back pocket and shows him the ad.  _ His _ ad. “I, uh, I’m lookin’ for a job. I got enough knowledge on cars, even fixed my own truck once in a while,” he swallows tightly and looks him in the eye. “I can work any shift, I ain’t got no school, and I can lift almost anythin’ if I try.”

_ I need this job. _

“I don’t get many young men like you comin’ round here and asking for this job. What makes  _ you  _ come ‘round here?” Smith asks with an undeniable twinkle to his eye. 

Arvin lets out a breath. “I ain’t no fancy man. I’m just tryin’ to make a livin’, sir. You’re hiring’ an’ I ain’t gonna turn down a good an’ decent job. I ain’t got high standards like them other city folks,” he replies. His voice is thick on his words and he doesn’t like it. He fights the urge to look down at his hands.

_ Look him in the eye,  _ boy _. Be a man.  _ He could hear his father’s demands as if he stood behind him.  _ Don’t you dare drop your head. Don’t do it. Not ever, you hear me, boy? _ His scold turns into a slither that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.  _ Not ever. _

“Alright, then. Son, you got yourself a job.” Mr. Smith offers his hand, and Arvin shakes it after a beat. Shock flooded his veins like an injection of wildfire.  _ He— _

“Thank you — thank you  _ so  _ much, sir. This means so much to me— I swear I’ll be the best hired hands you ever got.” He looks as serious as if he holds the plans for the Manhattan Project between his fingers. Mr. Smith laughs at the notion of it and just the  _ sound _ of laughter lifts a smile to Arvin’s face. 

“You’re somethin’ mighty strange, son. I do believe you n’ I will get along real fine!” He chuckles. “What’s your name?”

“Arvin, sir. Arvin Russell,” he nods his head, before taking off his hat. “When can I start, if y’don’t mind me askin’?”

Mr. Smith rolled the sleeves of his shirt higher on his arms. It had a small hole in it right under the collar. “Right now, son.” When he said  _ son _ , it sent a thrill through Arvin that he wasn’t sure about. “I got me two cars that need a quick fix. One needs a new filter an’ the other needs fresh spark plugs. You know how to handle that?”

Arvin sets his hat aside and decides to reply honestly. “Well, spark plugs I ain’t ever done, but air filters are easy ‘nough.”

Mr. Smith flashes him that same smile. The one that holds  _ so _ much more than just a smile. “C’mere, son, I’ll learn you a thing or two ‘bout spark plugs.”

And for the next four hours, Arvin works on things he’s never worked on before. Cars can be elaborate creatures, but if a person knows what they’re doing things seem to fall into place. He learns that Mr. Smith has two sons— one who had been just shipped out to fight in Vietnam, and another who’s moved to New York for unspecified reasons. Mr. Smith never said what it was, but by the heaviness in his tone alone… he wouldn’t pry. 

He never mentioned a wife to Arvin, but there was a dull, faded band on his left index finger that needed a clean and a polish. He didn’t even know what metal it had even  _ been _ originally. 

By the time they wrap everything up, the sun is setting on the horizon with a sky painted with deep hues of orange and red. Arvin exhales, letting out a cloud of fumes. One day is done. He made it.

_ What now? _

Mr. Smith stands beside his sitting form. He reaches for Arvin’s shoulder and squeezes it gently. “Thanks, son. I’m real grateful. These old bones ain’t what they used to be, y’know?”

Arvin let out a weak chuckle. It felt unfamiliar on his tongue as it passed his lips and faded into the humid June air. He didn’t like that. Even  _ laughter _ was foreign. “Ain’t no problem, sir. Just doin’ my job.”

Mr. Smith hums in response, before digging into his pockets. “A great job too, son.” He extends his hand and holds out two dollars.

Arvin stares. “Sir, you ain’t gotta pay me extra-”

“I want to, Arvin. You’re an honest man and a hard worker.” Mr. Smith smiled. And once again… he realizes that it holds more than just that.

Arvin felt something swell up in him again. It burned his heart knowing such a good and honest man— a man that  _ wasn’t  _ running away from his actions— thought  _ he _ was  _ honest _ and  _ he _ was  _ good _ . It felt like a lie. His  _ existence _ felt like a lie. 

The words— truth as it may be from the man— were venom down his throat, eating away at him from the inside out.

_ White lies are truths to someone.  _

Arvin drops his cigarette on the ground and crushes it beneath his boot. “Thank you so much sir. You’re the best employer I ever did have. Do you happen to know a place where I could stay? I'm new ‘round town and a hotel would be nice.”

Mr. Smith regards him for a moment. “Son, if you aren’t impartial, I got a spare room. Rent’ll be cheap. I ain’t got no use for them.”

Arvin feels the whiplash of this man and his generosity  _ again _ . It was like he had touched one of the spark plugs. The colors of the sunset— vivid orange, a beautiful chartreuse (he’d never considered chartreuse beautiful before), and somehow, a faded lilac— bleeds into his vision and he just  _ stares _ at him. He forgot how to speak. His tongue is like lead in his mouth and suddenly feels more swollen than it had been when he’d been dehydrated. 

“Son?” He could hear the amusement in Mr. Smith’s voice this time. “The world ain’t endin’ yet.” 

_ Son.  _ It was always  _ son _ , never  _ boy _ . Not from a man who had known him for barely five hours compared to the man who had known him for… 

For too long. 

Arvin snaps his gaze away from the brilliant colors of the sunset (a blood-orange red, a golden yellow, a baby-soft pink) and meets Mr. Smith’s gaze head-on. This time, it was easier. The slithering voice of his father wasn’t there to remind him in a snarl that whipped and struck. 

Strange enough Arvin missed his father. Almost wishes the man in front of him, calling him son, smiling at him like with such gentleness, was his own father. But he knew what his daddy had done. Arvin knew what  _ he  _ had done. 

“Sorry, Mr. Smith, seems like my head’s off in them clouds…” Arvin let out another breath as he looks to the man before him. “If you ain’t got no problem with it, I’ll take the room.”

“I made the offer didn’t I?” His chuckle is music to Arvin's ears. “C’mon son, it ain’t too far from here.”

* * *

The house is one story with white paint and green trimmings. The brick garden beds are full of shriveled plants and piles of tools. The front porch is empty, apart from a lone wooden rocking chair perched in the far left corner. In the rocking chair, for just a moment, Arvin could see his uncle sitting there, smoking like he always did in the evenings and mornings.

“It ain’t much,” Mr. Smith’s voice pulls him back to reality. “Hasn’t been much since my wife passed. But it’ll do.”

Arvin forces something to come out of his mouth. “It’s a mighty fine house.” Hearing about mothers and wives being.. _dead,_ hurt him. Reminded him of his own mama, and Grandma Emma.

Mr. Smith opened the door, “Welcome home, son.”

  
Arvin felt the weight on his chest grow heavier.  _ Home. _ He could have cried, but he knew better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uwu u see where im going with this??? im letting you think there's no angst then BOOM- angst.
> 
> ;) hope you enjoyed the read!!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No, sir," Arvin replies. “That a bad thing?”
> 
> Mr. Smith huffs again. “Well I’d say so, son. If you ain't heard of the King, you ain't lived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhh finally an update!? School has me swamped.  
> Okay so no TW for this chapter?? but there the word rape, and the word daddy, so if you are triggerd by those words please be cautios 9I cannot help that the language of the south is the way it is ksjhfkashf)

It's a lovely Sunday morning. So lovely that Arvin almost forgets his troubles. He was never big on going to church, but Mr. Smith is a man of good faith — this he learns the hard way.

"Son, you got any good clothes in that bag of yours?" Mr. Smith calls from the kitchen. He's preparing bacon and eggs, from the smell of things.

Arvin walks into the kitchen. "No sir, I left home in a rush."

Mr. Smith looks at him. "Gotta look nice for the reverend, son. Folks ‘round here like to dress up for church."

Arvin chuckles. He sounds so much like his Aunt Emma. "I understand that, sir. Sorry, I don't got anything good for church.”

Mr. Smith sets the plate on the table, "Eat up, son. If you go down the hall, there's a room. Go into that room. First door on your left is a closet. There should be some nice shirts that'll fit you. Used to be my sons."

Arvin stops chewing his food and looks up at him. He swallows the eggs with difficulty. There was an odd lump in his throat. "Oh sir, you ain't gotta give me no clothes—"

Mr. Smith waves a hand at him. "Hush now, son. I ain't gonna have you goin' in your work clothes. You know what they say: you gotta put on your Sunday best."

Arvin chuckles. "Alright, Mr. Smith. Thank you."

"No problem, son. Now hurry on up, the message starts at 8:45."

And Arvin does just that. He walks down the halls of the house, feeling entirely invasive and estranged. He entered the room as instructed. It too was empty. The only thing that didn't lack character was the bright blue covers on the bed. He opened the closed door and picked the nicest shirt he saw. A simple off-white button-down that was just his size. 

He wondered what Mr. Smith's son was like. Wondered if Arvin would have gotten along with him somehow. 

"We gotta get going, Arvin!" Mr. Smith calls from the front door, reminding Arvin that he was still staring at the fabric. He slipped the shirt on and rushed to the front door.

"Sorry, sir. Got a little distracted," Arvin mutters and winces when he hears his voice falter.

_ Weak. _ And there was that slithering voice again. That same voice that crept through his ears and snuck around his joints until he was paralyzed. 

"Ain't no problem, boy. Today we've got a new preacher coming to spread the word. I'm just a tad excited, that's all," Mr. Smith chuckles.

Arvin's expression darkens at the thought of that  _ bastard _ of a preacher.  _ Teagardin _ . The very thought of the man made his blood run cold. But it fades into sadness as he remembers Lenora's pretty face, surrounded by a fiery head of copper hair. She's six feet under and miles away from his reach.

He misses her so much. She would know what to do in situations like this.

Then again, he would rather her never see him on the run like this. Arvin closes his eyes and lets the hum of the vehicle settle in his bones. He wishes he could pull out a cigarette and feel the sharp, piercing taste of nicotine seep into the roof of his mouth. Wishes he could distract himself from the pain.

"You good there, son?" Arvin blinks. Mr. Smith is here with him. He had almost forgotten.

"I— uh, I'm fine, sir. Tired is all," Arvin replies absentmindedly, letting the silence between them grow once more.

"Well, we're here," Mr. Smith proclaims and brings the truck to a stop. "You best be on your best behavior, alright son? Today's the Lord's day."

"I will sir, you can count on me," Arvin replies. His voice doesn’t shake, but neither do the claws of dread in his throat.

Last time he stood in a building like this, he was aiming a gun at the head of the man that had caused his family misery. He shakes his head in hopes of clearing the memory. It doesn’t work.

The moment he steps into the church, folks begin to whisper. He doesn’t know why, but the way some of them were looking at him, greeting him with warm smiles, it felt a little surreal. He took his seat on the wooden pew and stared ahead of him.

“Good morning folks, ain’t is a lovely Sunday?” The preacher was a tall man in his forties, a bright smile painted across his features.

“Amen.”

“Sure is!”

Agreement echoes throughout the church, and the preacher smiles wider. He hadn’t thought it was possible. “My name is Gerald Sanderson, and I'm here to give you a good sermon this lovely Sunday morning.”

Preacher Sanderson went on about heaven and hell. How there ain’t no place like heaven. How we’re all sinners, and the Lord our God is a merciful one. Arvin was never big on religion. He knew where he was going when he died, and it wasn’t a place with roads of gold. He knew what he had done. Arvin could feel the sweat beading at the back of his head. 

He felt like a liar who pranced around in the shirt of another man, someone who must have been better than he was. Sitting there, pretending to care about what the vivacious man before him was proclaiming. Lenora would shake her head sadly and mutter a few prayers for him.

His mind was racing now, and he wondered if the sermon would ever end.

“And that, my children, is why we must repent to the Lord, and spread the good news to others,” Preacher Sanderson finishes his sermon with a solemn look. “If you have any questions, please feel free to come to me and ask.”

Mr. Smith looks at him with a gentle smile. Arvn wonders if the sermon was really that good. “Son, would you like to go meet some folks from town? I’m good friends with the preacher.”

Arvin would have said no, but after all the man had done for him, Arvin couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

“Sure thing, Mr. Smith, I’m sure he’s a real nice man.” Something in his voice snaps, but Mr. Smith overlooks it and gets up walking through the crowd.

Gerald Sanderson is a boisterous man of faith. He has four lovely children, three of them girls, and the other a boy. When they first came to town, all the people did was talk about them.

_ Four children, can you imagine! All the money it must cost. _

_ Well, you know what they say: It’s cheaper by the dozen. _

His wife, Lillian Sanderson, was all sharp wits and smiles. Everyone in town thought she was so good and kind, no one would have noticed how she neglected the oldest of the Sanderson children. She wasn’t their mama, of course. The Sanderson's mother had been dead for quite some years, due to cancer in her stomach. Nevertheless, the townspeople were perfectly content with the Sanderson family.

Mr. Smith clears his throat, “Good morning,’ Preacher.”

Preacher Sanderson extends his hand, one Mr. Smith receives with ease. “John, ain’t you a sight for sore eyes! How are you this fine morning?”

“I’m doing real well after that sermon of yours, Gerald. One fantastic message, that’s what it was,” he replies.

Preacher Sanderson bows his head, “I’m only here to spread the love of God, you know that John. His love for us is the key to our redemption, after all. Now, who is this fine young man?” Sanderson turns to Arvin with a warm countenance.

Arvin extends his hand in a robotic fashion. “Russell. Arvin Russell, Sir. Pleasure to meet you,” he says dryly.

“Quite the grip you got there, young man. You’re new to town ain’t you?” The smile seems to hide something else. Arvin isn’t quite sure what it is, and he isn’t sure if he likes that. 

“Yes, I am. Mr. Smith, d’you mind if I go out and wait by the car?” Arvin mutters with a quiet tone.

Mr. Smith nods and hands him the keys. “I’ll be out in a few minutes. Thank you, son.”

Arvin takes the keys and heads out the great wooden doors. He leans on the bed of the truck and glances around. Everyone is still in the church. He whips out a cigarette and lights it, savoring the bitter smoke as it penetrates the roof of his mouth.

_ Tangible _ . That’s what it was. He could feel the hot smoke exiting his mouth, the sharp smell of tobacco penetrating the air. The words Preacher Sanderson had spoken were far from tangible to him. He couldn’t picture heaven, couldn’t imagine a place that wonderful. A God that is  _ forgiving _ .

It wasn’t real to him.

* * *

Arvin had never been raised up on music— apart from the occasional church hymn. After his mama died, he never sang a tune again. He didn’t hate music, per se, but he had forgotten it for his own good. Or maybe he had simply forgotten. 

He didn’t know which was better. 

When he walked into the shop Thursday morning, though,  _ some _ kind of jaunty tune poured between the garage doors. It was something quick-paced and unfamiliar.

_ You look like an angel…  _

Arvin rolls up his jacket sleeves, “Mornin’ Mr. Smith.”

Mr. Smith comes from the back room with a box of parts. “Mornin', son. You ready to work? We got two flat tires and another spark plug to fix.”

“That’s all?” Arvin laughs when the older man gives him a look.

“Well if I was as young and as strong as you, I sure would think like that.” His laugh is hearty. Like how he acts— it’s too young to come out of a man like that. “Come on now son, grab that tire there and roll it on over to me.”

Arvin grabs it and brings it to Mr. Smith. “Good, now crank up the car jack,” his employer grunts.

Arvin pumps the metal handle up and down. All the while, the lyrics from the music pour through his ears.

_ Devil in disguise, you fool me with your kisses, you cheated, and you scheme. _

_ You look like an angel, _

_ Walk like an angel… _

“That’s enough, son.” Mr. Smith huffs from beneath the metal frame. “Hand me that lug wrench.”

Arvin got up and grabbed the cross-shaped tool. “Uh, Mr. Smith?” He asks as he hands the tool to him.

“What’s buggin’ ya?”

Arvin crouches down and picks at the mud on his boots. “Where’s the music coming from? I ain’t seen no radio, and I wondered where it was coming from.”

“Fromm my record player.” A hum comes out from beneath the car and Arvin swears he can  _ hear _ Mr. Smith’s smile. “You ain't ever heard of  _ Elvis? _ ”

“No, sir,” Arvin mumbles. “That a bad thing?”

Mr. Smith huffs again.“Well, _I’d_ say so, son. If you ain't heard of the _King,_ you ain't lived. That’s what I think. Your momma ain’t never raise you up on music?”

Arvin swallows thickly. “No, sir.”

Memories from when he was nine swell up his throat. When she had dragged him from the porch to dance in some childish imitation of outdated swing steps. He never knew the names of her songs, but he always liked them. Liked singing with her. His voice box closes up as if the air around him had become hot and dry.

Mr. Smith pulls himself out from beneath the car. “Well, that’ll change. I hope you don’t mind, but I always play my records. I’ll turn it off if you want, son. I didn’t think about how it would bother you.”

Arvin shakes his head immediately. He can tell Mr. Smith really likes the music, and Arvin doesn’t mind it. He’ll just block it out like he always did.

“No, sir. I don’t mind it. I suppose it is catchy.” Arvin lets out a weak chuckle. It’s one that flits between humor and weariness.

Arvin doesn't say much for the rest of the day. Once he's done the spark plugs, he moves on to cleaning up around the shop.

The rumble of an engine comes down the road and pulls up to the side of the building. Arvin leans out of the garage to get a peek at the person in the vehicle. He catches a glimpse of dirty blonde hair. He hears Mr. Smith laugh from within the main office.

They call it an  _ office _ , but it was more of a glorified break-room where a dusty old coffee machine sat in one corner, and a rigid desk stood in the other. Mr. Smith sat at that desk every day around 5:00 and did his billing and paperwork for things Arvin didn’t know about.

Arvin decides to get back to his cleaning, but when he hears their footsteps nearing the entrance of the garage he pauses.

“Hey Arv, we got one more customer today, you good with that, son?” Mr. Smith asks. Arvin nods his head— the nickname doesn’t go unnoticed— and turns to face the pair.

A pretty little thing with blonde hair and eyes greener than the leaves on the trees stood beside Mr. Smith. She was carrying something in her hands, and if his nose was still working right, it smelled like apples and cinnamon.

Arvin comes to a full halt—  _ he coulda swore he’d seen those eyes before. _

Mr. Smith clears his throat, “This is Miss Catherine Sanderson, she’s the preacher's daughter.” He beams at that fact, but Catherine seemed impartial to the introduction.

“Come on John, you know I like being called Cathy,” she said with a smile. Her eyes flicked to Arvin’s. “Being the daughter of the preacher doesn’t make me any more special than anyone here in town.”

Mr. Smith lets out another hearty laugh and he replies, “Well, dear, what brings you to the shop today? Your daddy’s engine all mixed up again?”

Cathy shook her head. “Ah, the handle broke. Sunday afternoon when I was trying to unlock the door and the darn thing wouldn't budge. I gave it one good tug and it fell out right in my hands!” Her sheepish laughter was something almost musical to listen to. 

Mr. Smith nods. His eyes twinkle with amusement. “Well, I always did say that door had a nasty habit of lockin’ up. I’ll fix it right up. Arvin, why don’t you keep Miss Cathy company? The door shouldn’t take too long.”

Arvin presses his lips together. “Sure thing, sir.”

Cathy sits on the small wooden bench outside the garage, sets the pie down, and pulls out a small book from her apron pocket. She quietly flips through the pages after a side glance at him. Arvin finds himself grateful for it. After all, some girls are far too talkative for his liking. He catches a glimpse of the title.

_ To Kill a Mockingbird. _

Vaguely, he remembers Lenora coming home with that book. She had bawled her eyes out. She was upset that the book she had to read was about killing birds when in reality, it dealt with rape and racial inequalities.

Cathy feels his eyes flick to her from time to time. “Ah, you ever read this book?” she inquires and sets a bookmark in her place. 

Arvin looks up at her as he methodically chews on a piece of jerky. “No, I don’t think I have.”

“It’s really good.” She attempts to propel the conversation forward. “I think it’s really interesting.”

Arvin merely hums in response. 

Cathy fidgets with the hem of her dress. “I— well, this might sound a little strange, but I think I’ve seen you before?”

Arvin feels the muscles in his neck tense. His breath catches. “Ah, you sure ‘bout that, miss?”

Cathy gives a breathy little laugh, “Yeah, I know a familiar face when I see one. I think you ordered eggs and ham at the Yellow Platter diner?”

Something clicks in his mind.

_ It’s her. _

“You— that was you?” A noise of surprise escapes his throat. “Well shi-  _ shoot _ ,” he corrects himself, knowing he’s in the presence of the preacher’s daughter. “Pardon.”

Cathy waves her hand at him. “I don’t really give a damn about the way people speak. I’m not unfamiliar with cussing, though my father would have everyone think otherwise.”

“Mhm” was all she got in response.

She laughs yet again. Arvin can’t tell if he likes it or not. “You’re a man of little words, aren’t you?”

“Where I come from folks don’t talk too much,” he replies. His voice is thicker than he’s used to and he doesn’t know if he likes _that,_ either. His hands are itching to grab the box of cigarettes tucked away in his jeans but he knows better than to smoke in front of a lady.

“Where do you come from? If you don’t mind me asking, that is,” she adds. She doesn’t want to pry. 

He’s grateful for it. In a small town like this, people are bound to. In that way, Cathy almost feels like a breath of fresh air in a town full of city smog. 

“A place far from here. A small dot on the map. If there even is a dot for it.” He tucks his hands in his pockets. 

She doesn’t reply, and when Mr. Smith announces that her car is fixed, she smiles gratefully.

“Thanks, you two.” She hands Arvin the pie. “I baked this for you two. I hope apple suits you, ‘cause that's all I had.” With a nervous laugh, she tucks a few strands of flyaway hairs behind her ear. “Thank you again, Mr. Smith. Knowing my father’s car, I’m sure I’ll be back sometime soon.”

Arvin watches the eggshell-blue truck pull away with a strange sensation tugging on his chest. From the garage, a few simple lyrics float out of the doorway followed by a melancholy piano that was then accompanied by a guitar.

_ Wise men say _

_ Only fools rush in… _

_ But I can’t help _

_ Falling in love  _

_ With you... _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohohooo you see??? finally some *interaction.* God I cannot wait to get this story going. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it!! Comment your thoughts down below if ya want :D!
> 
> Question: (What's a good date night activity?? What's your idea of a dream date?)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were about to do… the unspeakable to Arvin. He couldn’t allow it. (And even then, he couldn’t think about it.) He didn’t want to die—
> 
> Those people probably didn’t either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Arvin and Mr. Smith have another deep conversation (kinda) and like,, more Cathy because I love her
> 
> Again no big things but there is the mention of the word daddy and a mention of blood please be careful and take care of yourselves <3

It’s Arvin’s fourth week in the sleepy little town of Cripsington, just two hours outside of the bustling city of Cincinnati. He’s come to like the place.

_ I sure hope it lasts. Long enough to even settle down and have a family, maybe. _

He laughed to himself. His mind had drifted so far he’d forgotten he was only seventeen. Seventeen going on eighteen.

Mr. Smith steps out the front door. “Time to head to the grocery, son. We oughta fill the ice-box.”

Arvin lifts his head to look the man in the eyes. He doesn’t hear the slithering voice every time he does so. It’s a welcome relief. “Yessir. You don’t mind me comin’ along?”

“Son, I want you to come along.” His laugh bubbles up with such a hearty timbre that it makes Arvin’s chest swell. Every time Mr. Smith sounds so happy that it bleeds into his voice, it makes him remember a time when his own would do the same. “We keep each other company, don’t we? Unless you’d like to stay home, that is. I ain’t gonna make you go if you don’t wanna.”

Arvin stands and settles the cap over his head. “‘Course I’ll go with you. I’d like to see more of the town.”

Mr. Smith gives him another one of the smiles, the ones that make Arvin feel like he  _ belongs.  _ He knows he likes it. “Fantastic, son. Shall we?”   
  


“Let’s.” Arvin nods.

* * *

The store is bright and colorful. It’s stocked to the brim with fresh produce despite the town being relatively small. The store itself was a stark contrast to the tiny butcher shop his grandma had taken him to. Rows of cans and boxes of food lined the shelves. Stacks on stacks of fresh produce (and even a butcher shop) somehow fit into the building. 

There are other people there, besides them. There is a dull thrum about the building that causes Arvin to feel on edge. The fluorescent light cascading from the ceiling is  _ too  _ white. The vivid colors of brands of food he’s never seen before are far too bright for his liking. Everything seems too picturesque. Everything seems like something out of a fresh-print magazine. He’s been too many places for the magazines to feel real anymore. 

“Well, son, what do you want for dinner? Tonight’s my treat,” Mr. Smith says and picks out a few peaches.

Arvin reaches for a peach and rubs the pad of his thumb over its fuzzy hide. “Me, pick?”

“Yes, you, Arvin.” He can hear the man’s grin again. He’s realized that he likes the sound more than he knows. “How about steak and green beans? The Yellow Platter makes the best-darned steak you ever had, I can tell you that.” Mr. Smith reaches for some bananas.

Arvin shrugs. “I’ll eat just about anything. I’m hungry as a mule.”

“We can head on over right after we put the goods away, deal?” Mr. Smith declares. He then begins pushing the cart down the aisle.

“Sounds good to me.” The laugh he breathes out is uncertain.  _ He’s _ uncertain of the sound. Arvin finds himself laughing more and more these days. He isn’t too sure if he likes it or not. He isn’t too sure about many things as of late.

One they reach the check-out, Arvin helps Mr. Smith load the strange moving belt. At the register, a young woman began ringing up their prices.

“Good morning, John! How are you?” She beams at the two, and bags the items in a brown paper sack.

_ The same kind of paper sack those assholes put over Lenora’s head,  _ his mind supplies helpfully.

Arvin scowls mentally.  _ Piss off, ghost. _

“I’m doing well, Sylvia. How do you fare this fine Tuesday evening?”

“Busy, busy, busy.” She shakes her head. “I gotta run down to the Yellow Platter to switch shifts with Babs real soon.”

“You workin’ awful hard there, hun. Make sure you get good rest and keep up with your studies.” Mr. Smith took the sacks and offered her the money. 

Sylvia glances at Arvin, “I don’t think we’ve met! Is he a relative of yours, John?”

“Oh no, this is Arvin,” Mr. Smith says with undeniable pride. “He’s new in town. Only been here for about a month or so.”

“Arvin, nice to meet you.” She beams at Arvin. Her smile is as bright as the fluorescent lights, but with none of the dangerous humming. “Hope you like it here in Cripsington.”

“Thank you.” Arvin avoids her gaze. “I do like it here, very much I do.”

“That’s swell— oh dear, I’m running late! See you around, John, Arvin.” She smiles widely, then runs off.

Arvin hums. “She seems nice,” he says as they walk out the front doors. He isn’t sure about many things, but the townsfolk seem honest enough. They don’t hide things in their eyes the way most folks back home did. Here in Cripsington, there was an alarming amount of clarity. Just that much honesty is so unlike _Knockemstiff_ or even Meade.

“She is a real sweet girl,” Mr. Smith agrees. “Known her family for years now. I help her grandpappy with his tractors.”

Arvin murmurs something incoherent in reply. His mind keeps drifting away from him, like the feathery clouds drifting above their heads. 

“You ever, ah, ever had doubts about your future, Mr. Smith?” Arvin asks in a hushed tone as they get into the car.

“All the time, son. All the time. Heck, wouldn’t be human if I didn’t fear what’s to come,” he turns the key in the ignition, engine purring like a kitten.

“Right,” Arvin’s glance is downcast.  _ Shoulda known better— _

“Why do you ask, son?” 

Arvin falters.  _ Why did he ask?  _

“Well… I ain’t come from good. I did things—” Arvin cuts himself off, swallows, and keeps talking. “Pretty bad things that I’m mighty ashamed of. And I wonder if I can ever redeem myself. I wonder if I can ever settle down and—”

“Whoa, there son, hold your horses. Bad things?” Mr. Smith is looking at him now. Arvin doesn’t meet his gaze. He knows he’ll see the mistrust, the fear, the  _ displeasure _ that everyone who knew looks at him. He doesn’t want to see it in Mr. Smith. 

“I lost my temper,” Arvin adds hastily. “I was so damn angry. I went and took revenge on these…  _ bullies _ . I ran away from home. I was so ashamed, I— I didn’t know what to do,” Arvin mumbles. He keeps his eyes on those clouds up ahead, hoping to spare himself the pain of seeing the disappointment in Mr. Smith’s eyes.

Mr. Smith gives a deep hum. It’s like the kind people make when they’re lost in thought or trying to solve an extra bewildering puzzle. But it’s not an angry sound. That much makes Arvin’s steps stutter. 

“You ever asked God for forgiveness?”

Arvin closes his eyes. “I didn’t really take to Christianity as my family did.”

“I see,” Mr. Smith says. “You ever try?”

“Long time ago,” Arvin swallows. The memories come crawling back with blistering speed. The blackberry pie, sweet as anything he’d ever tasted. He almost laughed. He’d been covered with the filling, the sheriff thought it was blood. 

His stomach churned.  _ Sheriff Bodecker. _

Another man who looks out for him and his kin, even if his job was to protect others. He wasn’t innocent, no, but Arvin couldn’t find it in him to call the man  _ good _ , either.

“Guess I forgot to keep tryin’,” Arvin says. His voice is thicker than usual and he knows he doesn’t like how vulnerable it makes him feel.

Mr. Smith pulls the car into the driveway. “Well, I can’t tell you what to believe, but I can tell you this: You aren’t a bad person. Not from what I’ve seen. And, if anything, forgiveness is what you oughta seek. Now come on, we gotta unload groceries. I’m hungry too.”

The groceries didn’t take long to unload, not to Arvin’s surprise. They had only bought two bags’ worth, after all.

“You remind me of my son,” Mr. Smith says abruptly as they drive to the diner.

This causes Arvin to pause. “Really?”

“Yes, really. He was just like you,” he laughs. “With such a temper. The boy couldn’t keep his hands to himself. He would always get into fights with the other boys— I always told him to stand up for what he believed in, but he took it to a new level. ‘Course he ended up usin’ that anger for good,” Mr. Smith glances out his window. “He up and left soon as the army was enlisting.”

Arvin didn’t know what to say. He’d never been a comforting sort of person, never one anyone had gone to confide in. The fact that this man thought he was like a  _ son _ to him—

_ Reminded him of his son, _ he corrects.

It was bewildering to Arvin. Then again, the man didn’t know that the seventeen-year-old in his car had killed three men and one woman in cold blood. But the people— if they count as people— had hurt his family. 

First the preacher, then those two sickos that pick up hitchhikers only to murder them. 

Then that poor excuse for a sheriff who had chased him around with a shotgun. He had killed his sister and her husband, but they were about to do… the  _ unspeakable _ to Arvin. He couldn’t allow it. (And even then, he couldn’t think about it.) He didn’t want to die—

_ Those people probably didn’t either. _

“We’re here, son.” Mr. Smith was already out of the car door. 

Arvin scrambled to unbuckle himself. “Comin’.”

It was a brisk Tuesday evening, and a quiet one at that, too. Upon entering the diner Arvin found that there were hardly any people there. The music was still pouring from whatever mystery machine sat in the corner of the building— yet another thing he didn’t know.

_ Why do fools fall in love… _

Arvin follows Mr. Smith to a table that was soaking up the dregs of the dying sunshine. The cook pokes his head out of the door, yells something incoherent, then returns to his kitchen.

“I’m going, I’m going!” Cathay shouts back at him.

_ Her again. _

Cathy reaches their table and paints another smile on her face. “Well if it isn’t Arvin and John. How can I help you two today?”

“Hello Cathy, fine day ain’t it?” Mr. Smith beams. “Can we get two steak and green bean platters, please?”

She pulls out her little yellow notepad. “Sure thing, what would you two like for drinks?”

“I’ll take sweet tea, how about you son?”

Arvin looks at Mr. Smith, before nervously casting his gaze at Cathy. “I uh, I’ll take whatever he’s gettin’.”

“Two sweet teas, and how about dessert? House special is peach cobbler— a la mode.” Cathy can’t help a cheeky wink.

“You’ll be the darn death of us, Catherine.” Mr. Smith looks at Arvin. “Catherine here makes the best peach cobbler this side of the Mississippi.”

She sheepishly bites her lip. “It was my great-grandmother’s recipe, John. I can only thank her for passing it down to my momma.”

“Well, bless your great-grandma, dear.”

Cathy huffs a laugh. “I’ll pass it on. Now give me a few minutes and I’ll be right back with your order.”

Arvin watches her waltz away, seemingly swinging to the rhythm of the music that fills the air. He runs a hand through his hair and leans back in his seat. 

“You good there, son?” Mr. Smith asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Arvin replies, averting his gaze. “I uh, I didn’t see no record player ‘round here. Where’s the music coming from?”

“That would be a jukebox, Arv. It’s an automatic record player of sorts. You can pick almost any song you want. At least ones they have,” Mr. Smith answers.

“Oh, I see, “Arvin says. In fact, he didn’t see. He didn’t see many things. Everything in this town is so new and  _ different _ . Arvin really can’t be sure about any of it. He wonders if he’ll ever find that peace Lenora always said he deserved to have.

“You ought to go out sometimes, Arvin.” Mr. Smith recommends. “You’re a fine young man, you ought to go ‘round town and make friends, or something son. Maybe find yourself a pretty girl.”

Arvin raises a brow. “I’ve never been good at that sort of thing.”

“How can you tell? I bet Cathy thinks you’re pretty nice, I’m sure of it.”

“I don’t really know her. She don’t really know me, but she knows you. She trusts  _ your  _ trust in me. Don’t mean she cares about me,” Arvin mutters.

Mr. Smith hums. “You can’t make that choice for her, son, even if you aren’t wrong. If you get to know her-- or anybody-- then you’ll know what they feel about you. Don’t go judgin’ a book by its cover. It ain’t a good habit.”

Arvin nods his head. “Sorry. I just… I’d rather focus on work.”

“We ain’t got much work ‘round here, son. You gotta learn to go out and entertain yourself. I’m an old man, my company will bore you to pieces. You’re allowed to take the car anywhere you want. Just don’t go running away with my car, y’hear? Soon enough, you could pay for your own, or even fix one up.”

Arvin nods again as he stares out the window. The sun looks beautiful hanging low in the sky, surrounding it are deep orange and golden hues. 

“Alright!” Cathy’s chipper voice interrupts their intermittent silence with steaming plates of food. Arvin fights the urge to drool-- it does smell something awful delicious. “Two steak platters, and two sweet teas. The peach cobbler is coming out of the oven soon. Eat up and enjoy.”

“We will, Miss Cathy, thank you, dear,” Mr. Smith grins. 

She nods, and her eyes wander to Arvin for a second. He catches her gaze and holds it for a second.

_ Strange girl…  _

  
She shakes her head, before returning to her work.  _ He’s always looking so… distant.  _ She often wonders why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyways we finally moving along and LORDY I haven't updated in forever I'm sorry kajvkasjbvkasb I really wanted too but school and life always get in the way >:/ But I am here!!!!! And every five-ten chapters will be from more of Cathy's POV,,, cause we gotta get to know her too lmao,,, but also cause I ran out of ideas for our sweet angry boi, Arvin.
> 
> Question (imma ask one ever update lafslajs): Tell me your favorite song!! (60s era if you want me to put a line in the fic like pick out ur favorite lyrics lol) or just tell me your fav song in general! Mine has to me La vie en Rose or Put Your Head On my Shoulder,,, if yall want the playlist I made for this story,, I am leaving the link right here for you uwu https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0Ivn2kqZXg07GT99wV9r3h?si=BDSVX_2FRliyksKPFY8GXQ
> 
> its a guud playlist I swear- but all of them are songs from 50s-60s aljhfkajsbckas i hope you liked the update!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Well, you made it this far!
> 
> (Is it me or is Tom Holland with a southern accent not the hottest thing ever???)
> 
> I don't know, but I really loved the movie and how twisted they made it. It was interesting to see religion being portrayed like it was in the movie and the book is even better, but really not for the faint of heart. 
> 
> question: British Tom or Southern Tom?? (lol)


End file.
